Kokoro
by August Fai
Summary: He is heart, he is all heart. In which Draco forgets, Harry remembers, and in the end, it's all too late. Slash.


A/N: For those on my LJ who commented + loved. You know who you are. Oh, and–_two days!_  
Disclaimer: I do not own the copyrights to Harry Potter–those belong to JK Rowling and Warner Bros.

_Kokoro_

**kokoro.**

He is heart; he is all heart. You can see the beating of it in your mind when you close your eyes. He's not there but you can feel it, _a heartbeat, that's a lovebeat, _a lovebeat, that's Harry, you think, as you writhe on the bedspread. Badum dabum. You try to reach out for his, but he's not there. You can only feel your own heart scraping the bed underneath you. He is heart; he is all heart, but his pulse is far far away.

**ai.**

You vowed never to love. Because Mother loved you too much and Father loved you too little, and people are just way too stupid for adoration anyway, so fuck it all, hey, let them die.

They told you to kill him. They gave you the knife in exchange for your wand. You met him, and, God, you never thought knives could be so sharp.

**chi.**

He's looking at you, and the blood is running, and it's no where _near _your face but it's caking your throat anyway. "Malfoy?" That's you, isn't it? "Oh fuck–" Yes, please. "You're fucking bleeding!" Ah, but, aren't you the one who's supposed to–?

So now you're in trouble, and in the hospital. But my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles. He's got lips like blood, that one. Blood that tastes like cherries.

**wasurenai.**

And then you remember his name.

Your boss–fat, ugly, cigar-smoking plebeian–said, "Harry Potter. Ring a bell?" Not at the time. No, not really. No, sir, no bells ringing at this church, the weddings are all done, the brides have all been stolen. "Okay, whatever. You're gonna kill him." Oh, am I? "Yeah. Give us the wand, they'll track that. Here, here's a knife." Pretty big knife. "No shit. Pretty useful, too. We know where his flat is." Weasley? "Yeah, Weasley found him for us. Bloody little cheek she was, but she's damn useful, and a looker at that." Ah.

"So kill him, bring us his head." _On a silver platter, _you think.

You thought you'd forgotten, but by the time they finished wrapping the bandage around your wound, you gasp his name and the nurse looks at you strangely.

"That's nice, dear."

**ii.**

Yes, it's very nice.

Why are you stuck in a hospital, you wonder, when green-eyed men are on the loose (literally)? Your plebe boss is disturbed by your hospitalization; disturbed that you didn't surge the knife in someone _else's _flesh. You are a Hit Wizard, fuckit, he screams on a Howler, you were supposed to kill him, not yourself!

But you didn't _mean _to kill yourself. (You're still alive anyway.) You're sure dying is very nice and all, what with getting away from your shithole (oh, right. Life), but the knife slipped, goddammit, it slipped and you found yourself bleeding. Or, as Harry put it, "fucking ruining the fucking carpet."

You want to see that carpet again. It was white. Was he able to get the stains out?

This is the story you tell Weasley, who has come to interrogate you on plebe-boss's orders. She looks vaguely nauseated, but takes notes all the same. Scribble scribble scribble, goes the quill, and you ask him how he is.

"We don't know," she confesses, and doesn't look at you.  
"Well, damned if you don't know. I want to see him," you demand.  
She's still looking at the ground. "Oh...that's nice, Draco."

The fuck it is.

**ukagau.**

Oh, you are, oh, so, oh–happy is not the word–oh, so, exhilarated, ah, yes, that's it, to see him come through the door.

He looks the same as he did washed-out at two AM in the morning, when you crept in through his back stairway to 'take care of him'. And don't you still want to, only in a different way? He comes in–_alone_, you note–and sits down on the chair.

The one farthest from the bed.

"Don't," you plead, "come up here."  
"No," he says firmly. "You might stab me with a..."

Frantically, he looks around.

"...thermometer," he finally says, looking at the one on your bedside table.  
"No," you say, "I won't. Come on, Potter. Come up here. Let's talk about my stab wound."  
"Okay, Draco. Let's talk about your stab wound."

You tell him it hurts, and he tells you he's on the run. You say the knife was enchanted, that the cut is quite deep, and he tells you he's going to go away. You ask him why he's telling you this. He looks pained.

"Don't you remember," he asks, touching your cheek, "seventh year?"

Seventh year! How long ago was that? Draco doesn't remember much, all he remembers is when he walked into the battlefield and got hexed in the head so he doesn't remember much from those years, no, not really. Not much. Not anything relatively important.

"No," you say, and Harry bites his lip.

**hanashi.**

So he tells you. Like a bedtime story.

You listen, intently, as snippets of voices and faces and color come ashore in your mind; flotsam and jetsam that have just now decided to surface. _Dumbledore _and a long white beard appears, _the war _and some slit-eyed freak with a snake, _your Father_ and you envision a ripped teddy bear. Oh, Harry. Stop.

"No," he says, grasping your wrist on the bed. "You have to listen."

_There was the war _and you remember the blood _there were the battles where Ron died _and you remember the Weasley girl crying _and then Dumbledore came in but he died too _and you remember the hush _so we all came back to Hogwarts _a big castle _and tried to hide away _empty dungeons, blood on the bedsheets _but in the end they came back and found us _lots of voices,_ and they let us go _sunshine for the first time in forever _because Voldemort was gone _so was his scar.

You touch Harry's forehead, and it is all smooth and you can't believe it.

**dakara.**

He is telling you this because he loves you.

**mouichido.**

He says it again.

**mouichido.**

He says it again.

**kotae.**

You don't answer him.

**sayonara.**

He leaves.

**kireru.**

Something breaks, and it might have been your heart, but the medicine is numbing you so badly. You'll never know.

**ashita.**

Today is tomorrow, and Weasley runs in and thrusts a piece of parchment in your face. The parchment smells like smoke. And cherries.

**shinimasu.**

He's dead.

**inai.**

Gone.

**ima, kotae da.**

And _now _you have your answer.

**hai.**

He is heart; he is all heart. You can see the beating of it in your mind when you close your eyes. He's not there but you can feel it, _a heartbeat, that's a lovebeat, _a lovebeat, that's Harry, you think, as you writhe on the bedspread. Badum dabum. You try to reach out, but he's not there. You can only feel your own heart scraping the bed underneath you. He is heart; he is all heart, but his pulse is far far away.

**harukani.**

Far, far away.

_owari_

Japanese:

kokoro - heart  
ai - love  
chi - blood  
wasurenai - don't forget  
ii - good  
ukagau - visit  
hanashi - story  
dakara - because (rough translation)  
mouichido - one more time  
kotae - answer  
sayonara - good-bye  
kireru - to break; crush  
ashita - tomorrow  
shinimasu - to die  
inai - no longer existing  
ima, kotae da - now, the answer is here.  
hai - yes. (meaning, 'yes, draco loves harry too'.)  
harukani - far and away


End file.
